Member-only story
The Rainy Day That Became a Dance Party
Because puddles don’t care about age — and neither should we.
It started with a drizzle…
One of those sleepy, gray afternoons where even the dog doesn’t want to go outside. The kind where the sky hangs low like a tired eyelid and the pavement darkens with each drop.
Ale was the first to notice it. Not the rain — we’d all heard it ticking like a metronome against the tin awning — but the music. It was leaking out from someone’s open window down the block. A little Stevie Wonder. A little Marvin Gaye. Enough soul to wake up a sleepy Buenos Aires street.
I’d barely kicked off my shoes when she pulled me by the hand. “Let’s dance,” she said.
“Out there?” I asked, nodding at the storm.
“Yes. Out there.”
Because puddles don’t care how old you are
When did we start acting like fun had a shelf life? That certain joys — like puddle-jumping, spontaneous dance parties, or bare feet on warm pavement — were only for the under-tens?
That afternoon, the neighborhood kids weren’t the only ones getting soaked. Ale was spinning under the awning’s edge, her arms out like wings, hair already dripping. A few curious neighbors peeked out. Then, one by one, they joined.